


enough.

by DictionaryWrites



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Complicated Relationships, First Kiss, Fluff, M/M, Vacation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-28
Updated: 2018-12-28
Packaged: 2019-09-29 08:21:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,236
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17199962
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DictionaryWrites/pseuds/DictionaryWrites
Summary: After everything, a vacation seems to be in order.





	enough.

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Vexed_Wench](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vexed_Wench/gifts).



> For vexed_wench's fandom stocking! Happy holidays!

 “Bear,” Reese says, and the dog falls into step with him as they move down onto the beach, keeping a natural heel. He can just _see_ the way he’s trying to keep himself from wriggling with excitement as they move out across the sand. The beach is empty, and as the sun comes down toward the water, the sky is a palette of oranges and pinks, barely a scrap of blue left on the horizon. “Go.”

Bear is off like a shot, launching himself over the dunes and letting out an excited yip as he leaps over the sand, rushing down toward the shore and running through the water. He splashes all the way, his nose down level so that he can kick up more of the surf, and Reese feels one corner of his mouth shift up as he smiles.

“He likes the beach,” comes the voice from behind him, and Reese turns back to look at Finch as he slowly limps forward. His cane doesn’t do him much good on the shift of the sand, and Reese comes closer, offering his arm. Finch takes it, letting Reese take the cane. It feels nice, having Finch lean on him. The first time they’d done this, Finch wouldn’t put that much weight on him, didn’t want to lean too heavily on him, but now, Finch leans as much as he needs to on John’s shoulder, and honestly, it isn’t all that much.

“Do you?” Reese asks.

“I’d like it a little better with shoes like yours,” Finch says, and Reese glances down at the boat shoes he wears, at his white socks. Reese compares them to his boots. They’d come down here for just a few weeks, and he hadn’t bothered to buy sandals, not yet.

“You don’t like the sand,” Reese says.

“No.”

Reese feels his mouth move without his permission, and he turns to look at Bear as he releases a loud whine, running out of the waves with a big hunk of seaweed in his teeth. He scrambles to a stop in front of them, dropping the seaweed at their feet with an ugly splattering sound, and looking up at them eagerly.

“I’m not touching that, Bear,” Finch says.

Bear whines, bouncing on his heels, but before he can shove at the seaweed with his nose, Finch produces a tennis ball from the pocket of his white jacket. He passes it to Reese instead of throwing it himself, and Reese launches it with his left hand, out into the water.

“ _John_ ,” Finch chides him. “That’s too far out.”

Something twists in Reese’s stomach when Finch calls him John, even now, even after everything ( _does he think of you like that, in his head? Does he think of the two of you as Harold and John, not as Finch and Reese?)_ , something flips.

Bear doesn’t seem to have Finch’s concerns: he launches himself out over the spray of the light surf and doggy-paddles out toward the ball where it floats on the surface of the water, and Reese turns his head, leaning in closer. Finch freezes when Reese’s mouth hovers over his ear, breathing out over the sensitive skin there.

“Maybe,” Reese murmurs, and he relishes the way that Finch shivers. “I should carry you.”

“Really? Should you?” Finch asks, all but spluttering. “And where are you going to carry me? We’re not _going_ anywhere.”

“No destination,” Reese argues, his tone low and playful. “No estimated distance. All the more reason to take the stress of your injury.”

“If you pick me up—”

“Oh no,” Reese hisses. “What’s that?” Finch’s head whips in the direction Reese points in, and Reese moves, sweeping one arm under the back of Finch’s good knee and carefully supporting the other one, catching his shoulders as they fall back. He pulls Finch against his chest as he walks forward, taking in the slight flush on Finch’s cheeks, the way his breathing has sped up a little. “See?” Reese asks.

“I don’t like you, Mr Reese,” Finch says, and Reese laughs. “What do you think they’re doing back at the hotel room?”

“The same thing they’ve been doing for the past three days,” Reese murmurs, thinking of the finality with which Root had slammed the door closed, and of the parade of clerks he’s seen bringing room service up four or five times a day for the past three. “Having sex.”

“Yes,” Finch says, with a kind of fatalistic resignation. “I suppose you’re right.” He doesn’t try to struggle free as Reese carries him toward the shoreline, and Reese feels his fingers as they hook around the back of Reese’s neck, letting him support himself a little more against the panel of Reese’s chest. “You know, you could get someone. You needn’t, uh, spend all this time with me and the dog.”

“I don’t want someone,” Reese says. “This is a vacation, Finch.”

“Vacation, uh,” Finch repeats, sounding sceptical, “ _retirement_ , I think.”

“Either way,” Reese murmurs. “You’re enough for me.”

Finch smiles. It’s a sad, distracted smile. Reese doesn’t like it.

“Finch,” Reese repeats. “Harold.”

Finch glances up at him, his eyes slightly wide behind his glasses.

“You’re enough,” Reese murmurs, and he gently sets Finch down again, careful not to put too much pressure on his shoulders or his back as he settles down on the sand. Bear skids to a stop at Finch’s feet, dropping the tennis ball. He shakes, then, throwing off water in every direction, and Reese laughs as Finch groans and picks up the tennis ball with a delicate thumb and forefinger, throwing it away again. “Guess the money’s running short, huh.”

“What?” Finch asks. “No, Mr Reese, we are as flush as ever.”

“Well, to erase suspicion, then. We don’t need three rooms. Two is fine.”

“Two—” Finch hesitates as he glances back at Reese, his mouth opening and then closing. “I… Oh.”

“You’re enough,” Reese says again. “Don’t know how to say it any other way.”

Finch stands still, water rushing up the shore and against his boat shoes, and Reese comes forward, very slowly. He delicately puts his hand around Finch’s back, not actually touching it, and he sets his hand against the lower part of his rib cage on the other side. They stand together, one silhouette in the evening sunlight.

“There’s sand in my shoes,” Finch says, miserably. Even still, he shifts subtly, and his head slides slowly to rest on Reese’s shoulder.

“It’s the beach, Harold. There’s sand.”

“Yes, I know,” Finch murmurs. Bear comes up again, and he drops back on his heels, panting as he looks up at them. “Maybe three rooms is best.”

“I’m getting mixed signals here, Harold.”

“No, I mean— We don’t want Bear in the room with us. Not… all the time.” Finch’s chin shifts as it presses against Reese’s shoulder, and Reese can feel his jaw move slightly as he does so.

“Oh,” Reese says, looking down at Bear’s panting, cheerful face. “You make a good point. Right, Bear? What do you say to your own bed tonight?”

Bear drops the ball on Finch’s foot.

“Anything,” Finch translates, wryly. “So long as we throw the ball.”

Reese smiles, playing his fingers over the side of Finch’s torso again, and then he kicks the ball. As Bear tears away over the sand, he turns his head, and drags Finch’s mouth against his own.

**Author's Note:**

> Hit me up [on Dreamwidth](https://dictionarywrites.dreamwidth.org/2287.html). Requests always open.


End file.
